


Nightlight

by Previously8



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, The Magnus Institute, Visitor's Pass Zine, Workplace, also don't read the books, what goes bump in the night? no one knows and you shouldn't check
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22202971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Previously8/pseuds/Previously8
Summary: or: Basira eats the library (so that it doesn’t eat her first)The Magnus Institute, Basira decides, is spooky.
Relationships: Basira Hussain & Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	Nightlight

**Author's Note:**

> so since it's jan 11th in my time zone:  
> this was my piece for the TMA Visitor's Pass fanzine, a zine dedicated to the Magnus Institute and its stories! I was so grateful to have the opportunity to work with all of the other talented artists and writers, and thank you so much to [@snails](snail-drop.tumblr.com) and [@ivelostmyspectacles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles) for everything! It was an honour to work with y'all as artists who I've looked up to in fandom for a long time! 
> 
> No warnings, just canon-typical spookiness~

The Magnus Institute, Basira decides, is spooky.

Everyone else seems unbothered by—or maybe just accustomed to—its oddities. In fact, Basira barely gets a cursory tour before being left to her own devices in one office of many where the light doesn’t seem to reach as far as it should. In her first few days, Basira toys with the idea that the Institute’s quirks are just her imagination—that archive storage does actually end, that the distance between offices is entirely logical, that the feeling of being watched is nothing more than nerves—but she knows better than that. She wouldn’t have survived this long if she didn’t.

It doesn’t take long to get used to the weird bits, at least, not once she starts to realize that sometimes, spooky just means spooky. It’s not a hidden message or the end of the world: it’s really just the tingling, shivers down your spine, hiked shoulders and glancing over your shoulder style of spooky. There is no rhyme or reason to it, which makes it surprisingly easy to read her books: She is entirely insignificant to the institute, as far as she can tell. Besides, Basira has a job to do that mostly entails staying alive and out of trouble, so that Daisy can continue to do the same. No matter what is watching, or Watching, it won’t bother her as long as she stays out of its way. So, she’ll play along.

For now.

There are more interesting things to put her efforts into anyway—like the collection of one-of-a-kind books that she found among the towering, crammed shelves in artefact storage. 

She’s just settled at her desk and pulled out one such novel on her third day of work, when, for the first time since being conned into a job, she’s interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Hey, Basira?”

Basira isn’t actually expecting anyone to be there, so seeing Martin hovering in the doorway actually gives her a start. He’s wearing a jumper and hugging his arms to his chest—cold or just awkward, Basira doesn’t know.

“What do you want, Martin?” Martin’s shoulders hunch a little at her unfriendly tone. Basira isn’t sure if she cares.

“Nothing!” He grimaces and hurries to correct himself, “well, not nothing. I mean, I wanted to be sure—you read a lot, right?”

“Some,” Basira allows. This doesn’t look like good news to Martin, who hugs his arms tighter. Is there a fear of reading or learning or something that she’s going to have to watch out for now? She looks down at her novel, held open on a page by her thumb. Bad enough that her boss is a murderer and a maniac, now learning is against the rules too? “You can’t stop me reading—”

“No! No, I just—we have some dangerous books in the archives? Yeah.” He’s studying her reaction carefully, “the worst ones are usually the Leitners—they tend to, well, eat people? Um.”

“What.”

Martin shuffles his feet a little. “Yeah, so. I just wasn’t sure if you knew about them yet, and if not, I wanted to be sure that you did, because Melanie said that you read stuff from storage sometimes, instead of the library. So yeah.”

“What do you mean _eat_ people?” Basira has somehow found it in herself to be surprised, which is a marvel in and of itself. “Which fear could possibly be responsible for _that_?” The rest of Martin’s quiet ramble catches up to her. “And what do you mean ‘library’?”

“Oh. Did no one— Oh.” Martin looks honestly apologetic. “Yeah, we have a library? It’s upstairs, the second floor, that’s research—the elevator doesn’t always stop there, so take the east stairs.”

“And the eating people?”

“Well, the books are generally all connected to different fears. They tend to, um, consume people, make them just like tools—make you fall, or burn, y’know? So—yeah. Maybe take from the library? Artefact storage is a funny place.” Martin has a grimace-like half-grin on his face, like he knows it’s not actually funny in the slightest. It’s the same face he has whenever he says the word ‘worms’. 

“Is that it, then?” Basira’s being sarcastic, but Martin seems to take her seriously, nodding.

“Yeah, just about,” he says, waving awkwardly, “I’ll go.” He vanishes from her doorway, leaving Basira with the blue hardcover book that honestly doesn’t look any more ominous than before.

Well.

Never one to let things lie, she checks all over for any indication that it might be a so-called Leitner— the blue leather backing is worn around the edges, the paper is thick and rough, and the smell reminds her of the musty book stores she’d hidden in as a kid. There doesn’t seem to be anything _off_ about it. 

Not that that usually means anything in this institute.

It’s excruciatingly boring, being a hostage; that’s why Basira had started to read in the first place. Good books whittle away at the numbing hours sitting in her small office, empty except for her cramped desk and the ever-flickering electric ceiling lamp. It’s exciting, in the foul way that such things are, to think that the book in front of her might mean danger.

A more relevantly crucial detail--and further cure to boredom--comes in Martin’s suggestion about the library. Its existence intrigues her, enough so that she leaves the book, forgoes the elevator as warned, and takes the stairs to the second floor. 

_Floor 2: Research_ , proclaims a small black sign next to the door, _Library and Public Records_. She pushes it open and is surprised when it doesn’t creak.

The hallway behind looks surprisingly like the set of offices where the archival assistants, Jon, and herself are set up: a blank white hallway, one bulletin board on the wall with old newsletters and pamphlets for long-forgotten events. It’s just as lifeless—but not nearly as quiet. 

Downstairs, the only noise is when Martin drops something, or when Melanie stomps by, or the occasional screaming match. In-between, though, there’s never the murmur of conversation. It makes Basira feel wrong-footed as she approaches the break room, listening to the soft sounds of passing conversation. Someone laughs. 

It’s amusing in an awful way to remember that there are other people that work in the institute and difficult to imagine them enjoying it. Basira wonders how many of them are dead men walking, and if any of them know. She wishes she could tell them to run. Instead, she steps quickly past the door. 

She’s put enough on the line for people who barely deserve it.

The last door at the end of the hallway and proclaims itself, “library” in faded gold lettering. Inside, it’s warm, and soft yellow light illuminates rows of shelves of brightly bound books. She steps between the shelves and runs her hands over their spines.

She already has a stack of five books pulled out before can think twice. She writes down their titles and signs on the sheet on the back of the door, under the rest of the assistants’ names and their recent acquirements. She feels less tense than she has in days and wishes she could stay and relish it a little longer, but the eerie feeling of being watched starts to grow the longer she stays.

 _It’s just another quirk of the job_ , she reminds herself as she shuts the door behind her, _it’s not you, it’s the building_. 

Her office is exactly as she left it when she returns. She sends a text to Daisy—still hasn’t seen her in days, but Basira keeps trying in the hopes that Daisy might too—letting her know that she’s in her office, in case they want to ride home together. It’s a faint hope. Their schedules don’t seem to line up anymore: Daisy rarely seems to have time outside of whatever errands she’s doing for Elias.

Basira is good at being alone, though, and keeps herself busy with the little blue book. Her new library finds sit undisturbed on her desk.

A hand on her shoulder startles Basira out of her concentration.

She looks up—it’s grown dark around her, somehow—only the artificial light from the hallway is lighting up her room, and the light above her has gone out. A familiar silhouette is standing next to her.

“Daisy!”

Basira can’t read Daisy’s expression in the dark, but gets the impression she isn’t pleased. Backlit from the hall, it reminds Basira of sitting in the car, staring out the windshield while on a stake-out, a radio show playing in the background. Basira misses those days abruptly, with an anger that startles her.

“What are you doing?” Daisy asks. She doesn’t sound happy to see Basira. Her arms are crossed. The faint smell of burnt hair, a nasty, putrid odour, is in the air. 

“Just reading,” Basira tells her. “What time is it, anyway?”

“It’s half-one. Everyone’s gone home.”

“It’s not—” Basira looks at her phone. It is. It’s past one-thirty in the morning, long since her supposed day of work had ended.

Feeling dazed, Basira glances back down at the book and realises with a start that despite the darkness, she can read every letter on the page. Not that it’s glowing, but that the words are there, on the page and in her head. She closes it, and the cover is the same as it was earlier, neutral and unassuming—but by any rights, she should have finished the book hours ago, and certainly not been able to read it in the dark.

“Come on then,” Daisy says, and Basira can hear the tension in her voice. It’s the kind of tone that means Daisy can tell that something is wrong—very wrong—with the situation, even if she isn’t sure what it is. Basira feels it too, crawling on her skin in a nasty shiver. “Let’s go.”

Basira grabs her bag feeling unsettled. “Just a moment,” she tells Daisy, gesturing to the book, “I should—I need to return this. I don’t think—” She’s not sure how to end the sentence, but settles on, “I don’t want to bring it home.”

“Whatever,” Daisy says, but follows her as she treks to artefact storage, book in hand.

The archives at night are—wrong. The angles seem weird, the shadows aren’t cast quite right. The ceaseless feeling of being watched is stronger. Basira tells herself that the prickling at the back of her neck is just Daisy standing behind her, nothing more.

Daisy waits at the door as she goes into the room—Basira doesn’t want to think the words “standing guard” because then she’d have to wonder what against. Archive storage is well-lit, and she darts quickly through the shelves until she find the place she had taken the book. She replaces it quickly. 

The itching feeling of being watched grows as she stands there, and Basira spins around. There’s no one, of course. Just the shelves and the knick-knacks.

She turns to go.

As she does, though, a large black box catches her eye. She pauses. The books aren’t organized, at least not alphabetically--most are just piled haphazardly, and she remembers how everyone curses about trying to find anything—but this box still feels out of place. It stands next to a series of Wild West romance novels, some old National Geographic magazines, and under an ancient looking yellow-pages catalogue that just says “bones” across the spine.

Basira is reaching out a hand to touch it before she can think. The box is cool to the touch, like cold iron. There’s an embossed seal on the front, but not one that Basira recognizes. The longer she looks the more it seems—wrong. The box is at once too solid and too dark—she can’t tell where it starts and the shadows end—and there’s a heavy silver chain wrapped around it twice to keep people out.

Or maybe, Basira thinks, withdrawing her hand slowly, to keep something in.

Basira remembers what Martin had said, about books that eat people, that make you disappear. She can’t tear her eyes away from the box. _Books that make you disappear._

She runs.

Daisy must hear her coming— Basira has never been more grateful for her partner because she doesn’t ask, just follows. They run—out, down the too-long hallway, up the wrong number of stairs, and out the staff entrance at the back, onto the asphalt of the back alley. Daisy unlocks her car, and Basira all but vaults in. 

She looks up at the building one last time as Daisy drives off—all of the Institute's windows are dark, but with the way they reflect the weak glow of the street lights, they almost look like eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! 
> 
> For those of you who have the zine, I hope you loved it in-print! For those of you who didn't place an order-- there's still a chance to get stuff! The (limited!) leftovers sale starts on Jan 25th 2020 (keep an eye (haha) on the zine tumblr [@visitorpasszine](https://visitorpasszine.tumblr.com/) which should have more details in the next little while
> 
> If you liked it, please let me know what you thought! I live off of comments like Jon lives off statements ;)
> 
> Follow me on tumblr! [@everythingsdifferentupsidedown](https://everythingsdifferentupsidedown.tumblr.com/)


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